The Rag Man's Horse

I can hear the huffing snort of the rag man’s cart horse, uncomfortable with standing still in his harness, shaking his old head and blonde mane and shit-flecked tail. The rag man let me feed him sugar cubes, leathery lips snatching them from my palm while the rag man waited to see if anyone wanted rags or knifes sharpened. He came calling, “Rags. Rags for sale. Rags,” the orangey/brown horse clomping his shag-skirted hooves up Peoria Street. I remember the horse more than the old man, both weathered, wet smelling, obsolete, moving into things gone by, the clopping hooves, and the rag man’s cry, echoes come and gone. The rag man snapped his reins and clicked his tongue. His old horse leaned into her traces one last time.